


not like in the movies (our story's after the end)

by rathxritter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: And a happy ending, F/M, Mild Angst, lost of feels, post 5x22, s6 spec, spec fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 06:32:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: They're doing better, but they're not doing well.orHow do you mourn a person who's standing right in front of you?





	not like in the movies (our story's after the end)

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.

 

The afternoon light shines through the kitchen window, flooding the room, and Fitz stands there - pensive and motionless, a dark outline against the golden light, with his hands gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. For a moment she feels as if they're back at their Academy days, sharing a flat and paths only occasionally crossing - the two of them too hesitant, insecure, and timorous to stand in each other's way more than necessary. Too back in time, with history and fears standing in the way, the memories appear faded and ripped at the edges; The past is too much of a foreign country for her to acknowledge it, recognize it, and claim it as theirs. Still, there's a sense of familiarity that links the distant and half-forgotten past and the current moment causing the smallest of details to bring reassurance in regards to the uneven nature of her and Fitz's friendship.

She remembers him saying that their friendship has always been linear and effortless, a statement she can no longer agree on. The truth is staring them in the face at last: it's bosh, complete and utter nonsense, and pretending for things to have always been perfect never did or will do them any good. Besides, it would be odd for their relationship to have be immutable and remain unchanged throughout the years, odd to dismiss the insecurities and all the ups; Above all, it would be odd to pretend that there's always been a _them_ \- Fitz and Jemma contra mundo.

"Can I get a cup too?" She asks, stopping at the kitchen door and leaning against its frame.

Her question is met by silence.

Perhaps it's always been presumptuous of them to pretend that they could start from scratch at every sign of trouble, that they could just dismiss history and move on. A constant chase of perfection brought on by the two of them brushing their problems aside so as to pretend for them not to be there; It's always been another way to keep up some reassuring fantasy, the only constant they could rely on in times of hardship, they should have realized sooner that it would just backfire on them. Two people, endlessly inquisitive, about to embark on a relationship that would change their lives forever - it's not that it's false, it's that it doesn't apply to them any longer: they are not those people and it's all jolly well nice were it not for the fact that their problems and struggles have added up and are now impossible to dismiss. They are stuck in a competition with their former selves.

It's a way of pretending that everything is alright - she sees it clearly and hopes Fitz does too. The fake bravado and the courage are worn like an armour so as to hide one simple truth: behind it all, they are just two people, two sensitive people, barely holding it together. Now, the carefully constructed façade makes her feel as if they've rushed into things, never really allowing themselves to take the time needed to process feelings and thoughts, causing them to linger right under the surface and adding up - knots at the back of their throats, tears watering their eyes, silence and isolation. Reaching out has long become impossible and the majority of topics are banned for safety and comfort - it's a self destructive behaviour, the beginning of which she cannot pin-point. What she knows, however, is that all there is, is their pain - insular, separate, incommunicable - and the two of them caught in their own private sorrows.

"Fitz?" Jemma asks again, louder and with more insistence, before looking away. Her gaze moves to the buttered toast on the counter, the open marmalade jar with the teaspoon still inside and the dirty knife sitting in front of it, the shadows on the floor tiles.

They're doing better, but they're not doing well. If this is the best they can do, then they might as well give up because she's tired of feeling judged by her former self and of the memories looking at her accusingly. Time is running out and everything they have is slipping away from them, but they are still unable to leave each other alone and she finds herself looking at him longingly and feeling nauseous, unable to even come up with a way to overcome the distance between them. Companiable near-silence is all there has been since they have left S.H.I.E.L.D and while at the beginning it had smothered their differences, making the living together easier, now it's nothing but a constant reminder of their failed communication. However, leaving S.H.I.E.L.D for good still feels like the best solution; It gives them time - to heal, to breathe, to live - and it allows them to be free of any expectation placed upon them: her and Fitz, the perfect couple, psychically linked. It's a tantalizing and glittering picture they've always tried to live up to, something they have always let going in the way. At first this kept them apart and then that kept them apart, and then it all degenerated out of control. Regrets are endless, memories spin in her head faster and faster, all the possible choices they could have made popping up in her mind one after the other.

She wants to run away, the corridor is just behind her and she can leave it be, come back later and brew her own tea. Walking away is tempting, actually doing it could be explained away in a matter of words; she taps her feet on the floor and clenches her fists. "Can I get a cup too?"

Fitz's pyjama trousers hang loosely on his hips and his white shirt is only half tucked in. He goes through the most trivial actions with mathematical precision: there he is buttering his toast, taking a teaspoon of marmalade and splashing it on the bread, the next one he stuffs directly into his mouth.

Fitz, Fitz, _Fitz._ She wants to call him again and step closer, let all the words she's been holding back come out in complete and utter freedom. She wants to hold him close and tell him everything, whisper her secrets and voice her sorrows. With no space between them, she wants tell him she loves him until it starts to sound less like an _I am sorry_ and more like a universal truth. She wants to apologize for her behaviour in the past couple of days, weeks, months, perhaps even from before that, until it starts feeling as if there are no apologies left in the whole universe. Above all, she wants to step forward and ask him how he's feeling, how he is really feeling, and if he can come up with one decent enough reason for which they can no longer be in the same room without feeling trapped in an uncomfortable and unwanted situation.

 _And he didn't miss much, did he?_ Stiff upper lip and security in her voice. Did she ever really believe in it? Because Fitz, this Fitz, Fitz has missed a lot and is unaware of their, her experience and that the memories of it keep her awake at night. It's a life that doesn't belong to him and she cannot find the courage to tell him the truth; With the memories of the framework still fresh, he'd be twice a stranger in his own life. It's unfair.

How do you mourn a person who's standing right in front of you and is as alive as ever? How do you let go of the memories little by little, treasuring them while rebuilding a life? And before that, the framework she's had time to process things and move on, he didn't; When they start with such a disadvantage, can the distance between them ever close up completely? The questions are driving her crazy.

Mack offered to send her the video he's made at the wedding and she refused. Showing it to Fitz? She would never dare or find the courage. Watching it herself? Unnecessary when she still remembers everything from the feeling of the wedding band around her finger to that of Fitz's, the other Fitz's, Fitz's lips pressed against hers.

"Yeah, sure," Fitz mutters, stepping back so as to be able to open the cabinet and take another cup out.

Their intimacy is long gone. It's not about any physical aspect of their relationship, that she doesn't really care about, but rather in the smallest of things and all the tasks they now find themselves incapable to perform; Sometimes, it makes her regret the decision of sharing a flat. They thought themselves ready but clearly aren't or they were and have managed to ruin it all in the meanwhile - at this point she's not even sure anymore and is too afraid to ask. Strangers, perfect pretenders: they have their own routines and the other is not a part of it, if not as a shadow moving in the back. Sometimes, she feels as if they deserve an award for even trying, for going on despite the failed meal times having long transformed in solitary bowls of cereals before the other got up and sandwiches eaten in another room (would work ever get the old ring to it back, or would they always end up hearing it as an excuse to escape company and the awkwardness that said company brought along?).

"Thanks," she replies.

Fitz turns around and they look at each other inquisitively. It's the longest eye contact they've had in weeks and she wishes for time to freeze so as linger in the moment for a little while longer. He looks less emaciated but still tired - dark circles under his eyes, she wants to ask him how long since he slept a whole night without waking up once.

"The jumper looks familiar," he says. There's a smile on his face or a hint of it, the corners of his mouth only slightly raising and small crinkles around his eyes.

"Does it now?"

"Hmmm. I think it was mine for a whole week. I've been wondering what had happened to it."

"You never wore it."

"Never had the chance."

Silence falls again.

They've had lunch once, a little more than a month ago, at a place just around the corner. She was coming home from work, Fitz was on his way to do the shopping for the weekend - their former team was meant to come on Sunday for dinner. Fish and chips, the battering of the former semi-liquid and the latter far too greasy, which they had eaten sitting on a bench in the park - laughter and screaming of children coming from the playground and rising into the air, had sometimes covered their words. They had forgotten themselves and things between them had gone back to normal; there they were with nothing standing in the way, carefree, laughing and talking in complete liberty. At home, they were met with the harsh realisation that the habits of separation are not easily discarded.

"Is it always going to be like this?" She pauses, surprised at her own new found courage. "Between us?"

The look on his face mirrors hers and she knows, deep down, like some universal truth, that they are both waiting for the same thing to happen: this moment slipping away from them.

"Yes, of course," she continues, giving Fitz no chance to reply. He looks like a fish, she wants to tell him, standing there opening and closing his mouth, but there's no space for easy bantering when everything feels unstable and breakable. "It has to be. Idiot."

At this point is there even a way out? It's the same old story and the ending, unfortunately, appears to be obvious. Miscommunication and misunderstandings growing and leaving them huddled in their separate losses, unspoken resentments beginning to grow. It's textbook, old and tested, and they've gone through it so many times that every move, every look, every word, is predictable. Little it matters that they don't want it to happen.

"Maybe, who knows. Bad things happen, we've got to live with it."

"Move on?"

"Is that even possible?" He asks as he turns around, taking the kettle and pouring the boiling water into the cups. "Still there?"

She thinks about not answering and leaving, can even see herself doing it. It's the easy way out, just another way to avoid the inevitable confrontation and stay safe, and it's ever so tempting. "Still here," she replies, taking a deep breath.

"Fitz-" she starts, but her voice breaks down and the last few sounds of his name come out as barely audible. Her face distorts into a grimace as she tries to imagine what the future holds if they go on as they are doing now; Bleak, desolate, she doesn't want them to become real strangers and give up, but at the same time it feels as if that's the point they are running towards. Truth to be told, every day she's one step closer from screaming that she can't live in that flat anymore, not like that, never again.

It's all too much and it's both their fault - in equal measure.

Is it stubbornness or masochism to stay there and refuse to leave? The answer changes each day, but at the same time she's sure that in some twisted way, and lacking a better alternative, it's their way to look out and after the other; Stolen and lingering glances, after all this time they still can't leave each other alone. They've had a life before meeting and there's no doubt that they would have one too if they were to part ways for good and no matter for how long, but their friendship has been a riot - the mere idea of losing it is heartbreaking. There's something, a lot of things, worth fighting for, the truth is inescapable but is it enough to stop them from reaching the breaking point?

"Fitz, I-"

She wants to stop looking at him and think about lost experiences.

She takes a deep breath, the fresh and crispy autumn  air coming in through the window mixes with the smell of tea and toast, ripe apples, and dead leaves and fills her nostrils - nature and comfort - the air leaving her lungs cuts the air sharply. The words are there, on the tip of her tongue, too absurd in their nature to ring true to her own ears, and remain stuck - a cough leaves her mouth instead of a well pronounced string of syllables, sentences poured out in grammatical fashion.

Instead, she slowly walks up to him, her hand tentatively stretched out, stopping beside him. Their hands touch on the counter, brushing against each other - his skin is warm next to hers and the contact, the first real contact in months, feeble and insignificant in its nature, comes as a comfort.

"Don't say you want the jumper back."

His eyes look as watery as hears, thought it could just be wishful thinking.

"Now that you mention it-"

A laugh escapes her mouth. She feels it forming back at the back of her throat, bubbling up, but it comes out as half a sob and not at all careless and free. They could be up there, laughing and joking, their old bantering finally back - familiar, it would be a relief to have it all back without exceptions, with nothing holding them back; But the tears are unstoppable now and refuse to be blinked away, prickling in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks.

Fitz moves his arm around her shoulders and she leans her head against him and for the first time in a year allows her feelings to run wild and surface. The self-control and the courage crumble, her vulnerability is exposed, and she starts crying.

 


End file.
